Sneaky.

OK, obviously I've lost track of time which means I have no clue how many days of freedom I have had, or how many days I've been nannying, or how many days since I've showered or changed my underwear. That's childcare for ya...

Recently, #1 (the older child) has gotten into the habit of shouting out, "you didn't see that!" whenever I have my back turned. To her, this is positively hilarious and is followed by a shower of giggles. To me, this is a special brand of terrifying. Positively incredibly how a four-year-old with 74 pink barrettes in her hair can cause the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end.

Generally, when I hear this exclamation she's actually doing nothing, but still I expect to turn around and see one of the following scenarios playing out:

a) #1 juggling a chainsaw, two tennis balls, and a bottle of vodka

b) #1 and #2 running naked while allowing a wild squirrel into the house

c) the dawn of World War III about to begin at the hands of a four-year-old who is quietly plotting nuclear warfare

This all brings to mind my mother's constant refrain that she had "eyes in the back of her head." Somehow, she managed to catch me doing absolutely everything I was never supposed to do. I mean really, the woman could be downstairs in the master suite, sleeping like a log while I was upstairs in my bedroom, crawling out the window and onto the roof and before I could get my hot little feet back on solid ground, I'd already be bending over for a spanking. Respect.

Truth be told, there were times when I was living in Maastricht...or Bangkok...or Buduburam and still feared those eyes from the back of her head, that would come right over and slap that bottle of Absinthe or other illicit substance right out of my hand.

Come to think of it, I may have found my secret weapon....

Deuce.

Day 41 of my freedom, day 4 on the job. I was greeted by an unpleasant surprise in my living room: poopy explosion #2 (please see post below from my first day on the job, for reference) this time, of the doggy variety. Not sure if it was Schatzi or George, but it had clearly happened during the night, as most of it was dry-crusted to the floor. mmmmhhhhhmmmmm.

I get to the house and the family decides to throw me a wild card: potty training has been brought to a whole new level and we're going entirely sans-diapers! (I added the exclamation point so as to appropriately communicate my extreme excitement!!!!) Wow. Little Bit has a delightful way of announcing she has peed...please note here the use of past tense. As in, I can sit her on the toilet (to no avail) and then five minutes later she's standing in a puddle- and not the kind with tadpoles, mind you.

...Never thought I'd miss poopy diapers, but poopy pants have changed me in the worst way. I mean, it wasn't quite on a Chernobyl level, but some sort of meltdown happened. Seriously, I don't get paid enough to deal with this shit (pun intended). Truly amazing how much waste a 22 pound child can create.

Finally got the girls cleaned up and packed up for a walk to Town Lake. Because the Universe loves a good joke (and also because birds are gross) a pigeon shat on the stroller, which landed squarely on Little Bit's shoe (as an aside: absolutely incredible a bird's ability to hit a small, moving target...I mean, of aaaalllll the cars driving down the four lanes of Barton Springs Road *we* get bombed on the sidewalk in a tiny stroller) and before I could grab a tissue from the diaper bag (no longer an accurate name, now I think of it) she's put her finger in the poo, and proceeded to lick it off.

Ugh. I hate that shit.

4x4.

Day 39 of my freedom, day 2 on the job. The house was a teensy bit chaotic: in addition to the usual milieu of clients, architects, musicians, and neighbors coming through, there was also a guest chef from Durham here to develop new recipes, some painting guys, and another man in a baseball hat that was doing something involving bunches of wires coming out of a hole in the wall.

So. Needed to get the girls out of the house and out of the way. Fortunately, we are within walking distance of lovely Zilker Park, made even lovelier by the fact that currently, there are *not* eighty billion sweaty, dehydrated music fans stomping around while trying to figure out who's on the main stage at 8:00.

This marks my first experience with a stroller in, say, ten years. My god, they've come a long way! Truly, this thing was the way of the future. It was a two-seater, with a braking system so complicated it had to be explained to me by the Mrs. Honestly, I had an easier time navigating a mountainous foreign country in a popsicle of a rental car. This stroller actually had a spare tire. I mean, what the hell am I gonna do with that? Wouldn't I need a pump or inner-tube or patch or something in order to fix a flat? And when did strollers start boasting spare parts? I'm pretty sure that when I was a child, the wheels on my stroller could have caught on fire while rolling over a bed of flaming-hot nails, then flown off after being shot at by a drug kingpin and my mom *still* would have jerry-rigged the damn thing with a piece of bubble gum, some baby wipes, and a freakin' bobby pin. Respect.

That's another thing...what's with kids always wanting you to "go faster!"?? Listen tyke: I'm pushing you uphill, in a stroller that also converts into a single-engine airplane, in strappy sandals (they're cute, yet impractical, a hanger-on from my old life), in 100 degree August heat, while my sunglasses ever-so-slowly slip down my sweaty nose...don't you know that slow and steady wins the race?

Tomorrow we make an "adventure trip" to Walgreen's. Can't wait to see what the car seats are like...

Spoon full of sugar.

Day 38 of my freedom and first day on the new job as: super nanny. In an effort to *not* drown in graduate school debt -because spending $30K on a master's degree which will never actually increase my earning potential is always a good idea- I've taken on the glamorous task of dedicating 30 hours per week to two tiny tots: girls aged 2 and 4 years old.

I know the family through mutual friends and Mom and Dad are textbook Austin. Naturally, they live in 78704 in a house rehab'd in the [seemingly effortless, yet impossibly unattainable] rustic-vintage-meets-modern-industrial style. Mom rides her bike to the office at Whole Foods corporate, while Dad works in his [at-home] design studio with Ray LaMontagne crooning in the background. There's a Prius in the driveway, vegan sausage in the fridge, and oh yeah, they also run a recording studio used by the likes of Sarah Hickman and Ben Kweller. Naturally.

[Knock on wood] but the girls are cooperative and mild. I loved that this afternoon, I didn't have to meet with any clients or sit through sales meetings...instead, I collected rollie-pollies (sp?) and caught up on some class reading. Sure, the lack of adult interaction might leave me just this side of brain dead if I did this for, I dunno 18 years, but it's a sweet gig for now.

Today was uneventful, although I'm sure there'll be plenty of blogging fodder. Although, I was a little bushwhacked when I arrived at 8:00 this morning to a "poopy explosion" that had taken place a mere moments before my arrival. I cannot describe to you the horror of these two words, so I'll let your imagination do the talking. Clean-up involved a lot of bleach. And not even organic, fair-trade, dolphin-free kind. Like, real Clorox. It was definitely a "situation."

Other than bug-collecting, I realize one great joy of this job will be that I essentially live in a universe of Casual Friday. No strict dress code! Love it! Especially considering my corporate job was so heinously corporate, that there was no such thing as Casual Friday...the Suits saw denim as nothing short of an abomination against Christ himself.

Actually, I take that back. There probably should be a dress code for nannies: as I left the house [on my way straight to class for the evening] I realized I was covered in peanut butter, purple chalk, yellow finger paint, snot, baby powder, and an unidentifiable substance that was likely radioactive...yeah, I should probably go ahead and invest in a haz-mat suit now.

Nuckin' futs.

Day 35 of my freedom and I find myself at home, waiting for a potential roommate to show up. Last night after class, I interviewed with a family for a nanny position and next week, I'll be interviewing for internships. Seems like we spend an awful lot of time jumping through hoops...always screening. impressing. trying too hard. I mean seriously, we all know that even in the romantic world, the first couple dates aren't really "dates" in the sense that you'd like to enjoy yourself while also forming a connection with another human being; but more "dates" in the sense that they're a thinly veiled screening process in an effort to fill an opening (some may call this a deep, emotional void) in your life.

But here's why I love Craigslist: it does half the work for you! Call me shallow/conceited/lofty/bitchy but if you cannot properly punctuate a sentence, or have an annoying habit of *constantly* splitting infinitives, I don't want you under my roof. I find e-mail is a nice, detached way of weeding out potential renters. Case in point: I received interest from a young lady whose 900 word [first contact] message I will condense and regurgitate here, with my bracketed, [literally] colorful commentary:

Hi! My name is Crazy (typo, but it stays...ok, ok I did that on purpose) I'm 18 years young (young doesn't even begin to describe you, toots) and I graduated this year from McCallum High School. Yay me! (thank you for at least using/spelling the proper form of 'yay' as opposed to 'yeah') It was a rough 4 years, but I got through it. Finally.(hmmm nice use of foreshadowing here. Your pointedly vague use of "rough" sends little shivers up my spine. What does it all mean??) I'm an only child (did you really scare your parents into stopping reproduction?), so having a roommate will be interesting.. lol. (your tone says 'laid-back' but your uneasy ellipsis with 'lol' says 'emotionally wheels-off')

My past: (I like the subtitled chapters. Nice touch. Also means you have too much time on your hands)

During my freshman year in highschool, I began having lots of trouble. (Again, vague use of "trouble" frightens me). I would skip school, cry out of nowhere, have panic attacks, etc. (Ahh, there it is! Some real character exposition. Love it!) Finally, I was admitted into the Shoal Creek Psychiatric Hospital for self-harm. The psychiatrist later diagnosed me with Bipolar Disorder, and I was put on medication. I haven't been back since, and I've been stable (I'll go ahead and assume you use the term 'stable' loosely). Sure, I still have my depression moments and mood swings, but that's all part of being a hormonal teenage girl (really? I thought it was boys, breaking curfew, more boys, drinking Boone's Farm, and lots more boys...I like my version better). By the way, I'm NOT psycho. (No, no of course not!) Bipolar Disorder is a chemical imbalance in the brain. No, I'm not going to come after you in the middle of the night with a knife (I'm sure you prefer a chainsaw). I'm a sweetheart, trust me. (Again, experiencing extreme discomfort at closing this sentence with "trust me." Pretty sure those are the last words you hear when waking up in a basement outside Guadalajara, in a bathtub of ice, with your kidneys neatly packaged in a Zip-Loc bag next to the hairdryer on the sink).

My current situation:

So after graduating high school, I decided to take a year off. Now I work full-time at a pet store, which I love because I get to see and pet animals (do they not smell the crazy on you? I thought animals could do that.) Oh yeah, last week I picked up a German Shepherd puppy off the streets (Because this seems like just the kind of responsibility you can handle at the age of 18).The vet estimates that she is going to be between 80 and 90 pounds. She is already displaying protectiveness signs. And she loves to chew on her toys. (Basically, she will kill you).
Another thing.. my mom and I fight constantly, and my dad doesn't do anything about it, so I'm always feeling kind of helpless (Wow! This just keeps getting better and better! Alright, alright I do kind of feel for you here. Kind of.). I want someone who I can get along with and just will be there for me and will be like a best friend and will talk to me and just let me vent when I need to (Well, I need someone that can just be a responsible grown-up, not flush tampons down the toilet, or set up a meth lab in the closet. How about we both just shit in one hand, wish in the other, and see which one fills up faster, k?).

Anyway, that's currently where I stand right now ('Anyway'? That's it? Whew! Thought I might really have a crazy person for a second there!).

Hope to hear from you soon!

That's the other thing I love about Craigslist: while you might not ever find someone to rent out your third bedroom, at least the shit's entertaining!

Un-office.

Day 33 of my freedom and here is an excellent example of my typical day, post-Costa Rica bliss, post-corporate life, in my favorite format (aka: list compilation):

* List of things I did not do today:

• Open an Outlook Inbox with 35+ unread emails, all the while wondering how long my stupid freakin' Dell will let me work undisturbed by Malware pop-ups and Unused Desktop Icon alerts before I have to shut down the whole system and call [useless] IT man.
  
• Sit in traffic on northbound I-35, thinking the Jetsons had it right. Especially with the whole fold-up-your-flying-car-into-a-suitcase thing (oh, and the robot-maid was a good call, too)...no traffic *and* no parking issues. Genius.
  
• Drag myself to 6:00 am spin class, so I can get in a work-out before the office at 8:00, cursing myself for again forgetting that 24 Hour Fitness has no actual body wash in the little shower soap dispensers and let's hope I don't get foot fungus because while I did manage to pack my Hair Pro 500, my frackin' flip-flops are in the car.
  
• Guiltily leave behind my dog for a ten hour day, then spend the rest of said day concoting in the back of my mind all sorts of destructive images of how my sweet golden girl has avenged her loneliness by either destroying a pair of shoes, or swallowing a large, unidentifiable object resulting in a frightful pile of vomit for mommy to clean up when she [finally] comes home.
  
• Deal with clients -maybe unhappy- always demanding. 'nough said.
  
• Try to assuage the childlike temper tantrums of a certain Director of Operations, marveling at how one can arrive at the age of 35 and still be such a daft, unbearable assclown.
  

*List of things I did do today:

• Opened an Entourage Inbox with a handful of unread emails, all regarding assistantships
  
• Step over a fuzzy-faced doggy pile on the way downstairs (that's my kinda' gridlock)
• Made an afternoon bikini wax appointment
• Solidified lunch plans
• Put on pants...but then thought better of it. Why wear pants when you work from home?
• Read the remainder of 1968 in America: Music, Politics, Chaos, Counterculture and the Shaping of a Generation for my History class
• Perfectly formatted my email signature in Entourage. Why hadn't I done this before?? Decided on bang-up combination of century gothic in maroon and dakota handwriting in teal, bolded for added contrast. Shazam!
  

In the meantime, I also did not make any money but miraculously feel unbothered by this point...must be the new e-mail signature.

Waste.

Day 32 of my freedom and what have I done with it? Basically, nothing.

Really, I never cease to amaze myself with how I can manage to successfully allow hours of my life to disappear (aka: waste time). This talent is in fact, the reason why -no matter how hard I try- I always seem to be ten minutes late to everything. My thought process goes something like this:

"I should definitely allow myself a solid hour to prepare for [insert activity of the day here]. Because I would hate to keep [insert name of generally important person here] waiting...that'll give me enough time to shower and dry my hair, feed Schatzi and get dressed."

*35 minutes later...*

"Wow. Can't believe I got ready so fast! I might as well check the mail real quick and empty the dishwasher"

*20 minutes later...*

"Golly gee! I've still got a few minutes to spare! I could leave right now *or* I could go ahead and remove this chipping nail polish. And the toilet is looking kinda' funky, too...."

*30 minutes later...*

"Oh shit! I was supposed to be [insert moderately important place here] ten minutes ago! What the hell happened??!"

So yeah, my house is always spotless and my nail beds flawless but I myself always show up sweaty and disheveled from quite literally hauling ass across town. Every. Freakin'. Time.