Babysit.

It's Wednesday and I feel fully recovered from an "alter-ego" themed party at my house Saturday night and an 80s dance party downtown on Sunday night. I also spent Saturday evening doing something I haven't done in years: babysitting.

All in all, an easy time because I more or less just put the girls to bed, then worked on a reading assignment for my Literary Journalism class. Actually, the whole experience kind of made me feel like being an 8th grader again. It also made me think of the very worst kids in the entire world that I had the great, reeking misfortune of babysitting in the late 90s....

See, babysitting is always kind of hit or miss. The second Texas neighborhood that our family lived in, I sat for two girls that were literally angels. The very first time I ever sat for them, they each gave me a kiss goodnight, said "I love you" and informed me that they hoped some day I might find my very own unicorn, because I was the best babysitter in the world and God would send me just such a magical creature as my Earthly reward. Even the dog, Winston, was curiously kind and well-mannered: I would open the back door and he would only walk on the tile...never a single paw on carpet or rug. Their parents also had a bad-ass stocked refrigerator and paid me $12 an hour, in cash. Sweet gig.

Of course, this scene starkly contrasts with the big "miss" of my babysitting days: the first Texas neighborhood that our family lived in, was home to three little devils. I have completely blotted their names from my memory (recommendation from my therapist) but the family unit contained one clueless father, one nagging, neurotic, medicated mother, two screeching daughters and a rambunctious son.

Funny enough, the parents had an entire bookcase of parenting books. Quite literally a library of "how not to raise three devils" and yet, they managed this Olympic feat. I remember distinctly this stupid effing M&M jar, which was the kids big treat...after dinner they were each allowed to have as many M&Ms as their age. Seems fair, right? Wrong. The fatal flaw in this holy treat system is overlooking the fact that most toddlers hate fairness. Let's be real: they are the center of their own universe and no one should have as much as them. Case in point: today, I cannot tell you how much I had to convince Tot #1 that she did, indeed, get many, many more strawberries than her little sister. So, giving one child 3 candies, one child 5, and one 8 is just plain stupid, something even my 13-year-old brain was able to understand.

Anyhoosen, one evening after allotting just the right number of candies to each kid, the middle threw a fit, as the older had more candies. In one quick flash, that glass jar was shattered on the ground in a sea of "melts in your mouth, not in your hand." Nothing a little broom couldn't fix. But then came bath time, and this family used these really odd soap flakes. Ya know, because liquid or solid soap would just be too difficult? Whatever. Anyway, the fatal flaw in this soap plan is that soap flakes -unlike liquid or solid soap- have the unique ability to be transformed into a projectile in the hands of a toddler, thanks to its powdery consistency which is easily handled by tiny fingers and I'm sure feels absolutely delightful being launched through the air...ever seen a tyke and a bag of flour? Yeah. So there they are, all three in the bath tub when the oldest takes both hands, and in yet another quick flash, tosses a fistful of soap into the eyes of the littler ones. Screaming. Crying. Burning, red eyes. Pretty sure the little boy threw a punch.

After all this, the parents wrote me a check, paying me $6 an hour. A check. To a 13-year-old. What the crap am I supposed to do with a check? I still had a mason jar for crying out loud, with a piece of paper taped to the outside outlining my savings plan for a palomino horse or Nissan Z car. They might as well have paid me in clothes pins. Useless. Absolutely useless.

Oh, and their refrigerator sucked, too.