Dear The Man

Dear The Man,

I hope you had fun towing my completely dead 1995 Nissan Sentra to your goddamn towing shop.  I suppose that (by the way, you suck.  You suck so fucking hard.) it was indeed on private property, and should not have been there.  I also suppose that it has been there for two and a half COUNT 'EM two and a half years, and not one single peep from you fuckers have I heard.  I think it's super-neat that you are only open from nine to five, the exact hours that most people work, enabling me to do absolutely nothing about picking up the motherfucker until the weekend - the WEEKEND YOU DIRTY BASTARDS.  Also, I have no money.  Also, it needs a new battery.

My lady-friend has sweetly informed me that the cost (without new battery, without adding in time spent, without adding in I-Don't-Have-My-Zoloft-Anymore emotional distress) is one hundred and forty-one dollars.  Did I mention I can't pay my rent this month?  Did I mention that that is because as a conscientious citizen I am trying to pay off my credit card?  GROWING PAINS PEOPLE.  Financial growing pains.

Also, speak up and speak some fucking version of standard American English when I call and ask you questions.  I can only take so much of half-muttered "What?'s" and sullen "Huh?'s" before I will become incensed enough to give the phone to my girlfriend, whereupon I will immediately march to the smoking-room, dramatically throw a lighter, kick the wall, and burst into tears.

Bad timing.  Bad fucking timing, dude.  Have a nice motherfucking nine-to-five day being the douche who helps make other people mad and sad.

Xo,

Martin

P.S.  Your karma is fucked.

Nanny Rules

To the parents who read this blog:  Please don't.  Nanny is going to bitingly criticize two of the most wonderful parents ever to walk the planet.  There's no way I can make this honest from me AND fair to parents.  So if you must read, read forgivingly.  Parents are great.  Childcare decisions are hard.  That being said I present you with

How Not To Piss Off Your Nanny 2009

1.  I have already covered this in an earlier blog, so I shan't be too long about it here.  I make sure I get to work on time, so that you may get to work on time.  Throw me a fucking bone here and get out the fucking door WITHIN the hour.  I don't think that's too much to ask.

2.  Read up, people.  You Cannot Reason With A Toddler.  Working Mom, I know you feel guilty leaving your little folks with me.  I know you don't want to leave until Buddy is "copacetic".  Unfortunately, the following does not work.

Morning Vignette

Mom:  Okay, Mommy work time!

Buddy:  *apoplectic toddler fit*

Mom:  What do you want?  (let Nanny point out - he WANTS you to stay.  You can't.  Do NOT ask this question!)

Buddy: *continues fit*

Mom:  Do you want to go upstairs?

Buddy: *throws self on floor, screams 'UP, UP, UUUUP'* (they go upstairs.  'Oh!,' thinks the toddler, 'screaming = what I want!')

An hour later, at ten thirty am, NINETY MINUTES after they were supposed to be gone, the parents leave.  With the toddler.  To the playground.  That day, both parents left for work at noon.  I sat at their home alone staring blankly at the sleeping baby and suffocating the urge to quit.  In short, #2:  Your child is not in charge.  You are.  Be loving, be firm, be the goddamn adult.

3.  This is a bit extended from #2, but it's very important and hard even for ol' Nanny Flaps to do:  never, ever, never but NEVER end a MANDATORY request with the word "okay?"  Examples:  "It's time to go to school, okay?"  

                     "Get out of the street, okay?"

                     "Fingers out of the baby's eyes, okay?"

Again:  handing power to someone who's been out of the womb for less than two years.  Say "please" instead, for the love of God.

4.  Don't "help" me.  You're not "helping".  You're being a pain in the ass.  We work with the same two children in very different ways - you're a mom and I'm not, so I like to tip-toe around my utter contempt for your "method". Please don't force me to witness it.  Trust me, your child will stop that temper-fit the instant you leave his sight.  He will only escalate if you hang around "helping" by asking what he wants and getting him more special-treat-snacks.  Check out the differences:

When Buddy has a fit, you ask questions, you do what he screams at you to do, and you end up in tears too.  When Buddy starts up with me, I put him in a safe place, tell him to find me when he finds his Big Boy Voice, and I walk away.  I do not acknowledge him until he is done.  If he hurts himself flailing, I wordlessly, cuddle-less-ly check for broken bones and blood and, finding none, walk away again.  Guess what?  It works.

5.  People get sick.  Parents and caregivers ESPECIALLY get sick, children being the disgusting little nose- and butt-picking disease vectors that they are (okay, me too, but I wash my goddamn hands.  Sometimes.)  I understand that you'll have to stay home occasionally, and I respect that.  Please, though, if you're just going to sleep all day, stay out of the way of me and the kids, and understand that if I don't hear violent vomiting and defecating from you,  I will resent it.  If you're not completely incapacitated, roll out your sofa bed and plug yourself and your sweet babies into videos and give me the day off.

Evil Nanny Hint A:  Baby Tylenol knocks today's organic-food-only vegetarian babies out like eighteen beers does your author here.  They don't need it?  Here's a thought - that unnecessary dose that makes them pass out will hurt them a lot less than having a cranky, sick, or tired person take resentful care of them.

6.  Let me interject here and say that my lady-friend has pointed out that I favor this list-form because I have terrible trouble with transitions.  She's right.  I hope that you sweet readers still enjoy my blogging when I take an easier road.  I also hope that you parents aren't a-massing with torches and the like to come show the just-a-nanny-who-the-hell-does-she-think-she-is?? what's what.  You're right.  I'm sorry.  We're almost done!

7.  On the inevitable sick-ness of children:  colds?  Go to work.  Fever?  Go to work.  Constant, unrelenting diarrhea and vomiting from a two-and-a-half-year-old and an infant?  STAY HOME.  STAY IN  YOUR HOME, and let me stay in my home too.  Trust me, if you do not, you will find yourself using up the last of your leave to race home and save your shitting puking progeny from their also-shitting puking nanny.  Let's keep it in the family, please.

7a.  On Friday the last, every time I changed a diaper I changed an outfit as well, since the feces of the children was thoroughly non-viscous and streamed copiously from every possible end of their organic Seventh Generation Pull-ups and size three diapers.  All day.  I don't love your children like you do, and this brought me almost to tears and significantly lessened my enjoyment of my day.  Literally - deal with your own shit.  

8.  To my lover, who put on a special television show just for me - Fucking fuck motherfucking Caillou.  Look this bald little bastard up - you'll regret it just as much as she's just about to regret her evil little joke.  

At any rate.  Again, sorry I'm not updating as much.  It's winter, and winter makes me want to do nothing more active than crack a beer and raise it to my lips.  I hope I didn't step on too many parental toes here, but lord did I have a week and I just needed to give a shout-out to all my blogging friends.  "Happy" winter - keep your Chapstick and thermal underwear close, and "enjoy" the outdoors, if that's the kind of pervert you are.  Goodbye!

Gender

Put your balls on, ladies and gents. I got me a rant a-comin'.

I have been a nanny for a little over two years now - I began with a little girl who had a used-to-be-a-man-mom and a born-a-woman-mom. These "enlightened" folks, in the name of gender neutrality, allowed nothing pink, flowery, lacy, or otherwise traditionally feminine in Bear's life. When people asked what gender she was, Bad Mom #1 would say, "She is a girl now, but she might grow up to be a boy". When I took Bear to a conference they were having on oh BOY we're so ENLIGHTENED about GENDER let's use non-gender-specific pronous for EVERYONE, they slapped a sticker on her (her, her, HER!) that labeled her as a "hir". This of course is one of the aforementioned pronouns. Now, this, to me, is not gender-neutral. This is labeling (literally) your child controversially before she is in any way equipped to make that decision for herself.

Then you have the other child, Buddy, for whom I still care. (It is an unrelated but to-me salient point that Bear's parents are some of the lowest and most despicable people ever to reproduce) His parents, a woman-born-woman and a man-born-man, took a more traditional route. He's been in blue and trucks and plastic hammers since birth. Now, it is my opinion that children GENERALLY build their vocabularies on commonplace, familiar things. It is my belief that Buddy's love of trucks and back-hoes and front-loaders and fire trucks and cranes is a direct result of his being surrounded by such things since birth. What I hear from his mother (a woman whom I dearly, dearly love) is that he is "all boy". What I see from her is not only willingness but an earnest, heartfelt desire to see what choices her boy is going to make. She wants a wedding and grandchildren, whatever happens, but Buddy is going to have her support and love even if he chops his dick off and grows tits.

Now I really try to stay away from topics what might tend to sow discord, but I am terribly hormonal, read an email just now from Bear's mom about god-damn gender, and am heartily, heartily sick of feeling like my less-than-lesbian-community-approved opinions are un-welcome out of my head.

This god-damned email directed me to a website called - wait, no, I am not telling you what it is called because I would rather eat off my own labium than help that lice-ridden bitch in any way - any-way, it is basically gender-queer-ism for children. This, in itself, I do not mind. What gets your friend Martin's knickers in a real twist is the deprecating and derogatory manner in which they treat more "traditional" folks.

See, here is my whole entire point - because I do have one, friends, I do - when it comes to differences, the only way I think we can ever REALLY be down with each other is plain old-fashioned respect. As a Gay, that is the number-one thing I want from folks. You don't have to like it. You don't have to vote like I do. You can be a gun-toting, Hummer-driving, anti-abortion-anti-gay Midwesterner, and I will respect your right to have opinions and beliefs different from mine. I do not have to LIKE what you believe. I CHOOSE to respect it. That's the thing about rights, you know? We all have them, and I am not going to deny someone the very thing I'm trying to get from them.

And as for where the children fit in, I repeat - r-e-s-p-e-c-t. You got a gaymo, like Buddy? You got a straighty-poo, like his friend Maddy? You got a genderqueer, like that Riley kid? Well, cowboy, you RESPECT that child's sacred god-given right to BE who she or he or ze or hir IS. You RESPECT their right to make their OWN decisions about Who. They. Are. You respect your children, gays, trannies, intersexed folks, racially-diff-from-you folks, straight folks, and people who like dogs more than cats, or vice versa. Hell, I try and even respect people who don't like babies.

In case you think I'm getting all righteous on you, my one caveat on this is not respecting certain folks who take rape-of-respect to a new and deeply obscene level. So, you know, whew.

God, I'm tired. See you next time.

Dear Dickface

To: Assorted Dickfaces of the tri-state area

Dear Starbucks Douche,

You were sitting behind me at the Tenleytown Starbucks last Friday, reading your paper. I was sitting with my charge, four-month-old Squirk, who is learning how to drink formula from a yucky plastic bottle instead of breastmilk from a luscious rounded breast. She was, as named, squirking and grunting and occasionally letting out an admittedly ear-piercing wail. It did not escape my attention that every-time the poor little lamb let out a shriek, you sighed despairingly, stood up, began to fold your paper, and then were forced to sit back down as Squirk calmed herself. You bopped up and down and up and down and up etcetera for almost ten full minutes. You looked stupid, annoyed me, and my baby was no LOUDER or more OBNOXIOUS than the roving adolescents or the screeching toddlers. Have you noticed, dear sir, that you visit a Starbucks which at any given time has a population mostly comprised of people with small children??

If I may be so forward, per-haps it is time that you retire to a place more suited to your needs, like your home, where it will be less likely that I will pour my hot house brew onto your neatly-pressed pants.

Thank you,
Martin

Dear Metro Asshole,

It may be a surprise to hear this, but I am actually aware that there is a screaming infant on my lap. You may indeed be stunned to know that she is well-fed, comfortably dressed, greatly loved, non-gassy, dry-diapered, and un-exhausted. I am not, actually, a scruffy neglectful teenage mother with a toddler and infant. I am, actually, a scruffy nanny with a toddler and an infant who hates-hates-hates-HATES metro trains, metro buses, cars, movement, strollers, elevators, transitions, fluorescent lighting, Starbucks, changing clothes, being on her back, and pacifiers. There is - and let me be MOST clear - there is Absolutely Nothing I can do to make her stop screaming. I am aware that the noise is annoying to you. Rest assured it is both frustrating and heart-breaking to me. I have tried many things to comfort her upon the train, but unfortunately this is one of those this-too-shall-pass stages of Squirk's infancy.

Here are a few things YOU have tried to ameliorate her distress while amplifying mine - I would like you to note that they did NOT work, and I would advise VERY STRONGLY against continuing to do them.

1. Loudly rustling newspaper, glaring
2. Plain glaring w/o paper-rustling
3. Trying to give me advice over Squirk's wails
3a. I don't want it, I don't need it, shut your hole.
4. Also really? Do we NEED to add to the cacacophony??
5. Saying things about THAT POOR BABY to your companion.
5a. I can fucking HEAR YOU YOU KNOW!

Remember, I may be a caregiver, but I am also a fairly vicious little thing, especially when it comes to my Buddy and my Squirk. Bottom line? Don't fuck with me.

Yours,
Martin

Dear Snotty French Woman From Class,

I don't really care what worked with your kids. I notice that your three-year-old son has long, flowing locks of hair pulled back into a partial pony-tail, and that he is a non-sharing non-listening asshat of a kid. I am also aware, unlike Some People, that the condition and comport of your child is None Of My Business. Squirk is not tired. Squirk is not hungry. Squirk hates the noise of, the lighting in, and the reeky kid-urine smell of Buddy's preschool classroom. She does not have acid reflux. She is not sick. For the record, she HATES being held on her stomach, and you better not ever, ever, EVER take a child in my care out of her carrier without my express permission, ever again. You are lucky that your fat French head is still attached to your stupid French shoulders.

My charges, my choices. Hands off the kids or hands torn off your body.

Cheers,
Martin

Well, I think that about sums it up, what-what? As always I hope I was of service, and please remember to keep your hands, advice, glares, rustlings, and irritation re: newborns to yourselves. Good day.

Extremely Rude

Scenario: Me happily skippily leaving work.
Situation: Beer-getting and friend-going-to-visit
Players: Martin, Asian check-out lady, and two douches

I was on my way to visit a dear friend for her birthday. I did not know if her brunch earlier in the day had depleted her mead supply, so I thoughtfully selected for my-self twelve frosty friends to bring. I took them swiftly to the counter and stood politely in line. Before me were two people purchasing a twenty-six dollar bottle of wine. The man was wearing faded Wranglers which sagged most unattractively over his non-buns, and his lady-beast was dressed entirely in black. She had (foolishly, oh-so-foolishly!) decked her-self out further in fake - fake I tell you! - golden bangles, earrings, necklace, bracelets, etc.

Obviously I was biased to begin with, but you just listen to THIS. Wranglers handed the cashier a card for paying, and she smilingly explained to him that they charged all cards as credit even if they were debit cards. "Whatever", Wranglers muttered nastily, and his bangly succubus sniffed in a most obnoxious manner. The poor check-out lady's face fell a little, which I have not seen before. This aggrieved me terribly. I bought my beers and left the store to catch a cab, and who do you think is on my cab-catching corner?

Why, Bangles and Wranglers, that's who! 'Ha-ha!', I said to my-self, 'Karmic justice for you, my check-out friend!' Pretending I did not see them standing there waiting, I bopped merrily into the street and raised my tiny hand. I was not there five seconds when my olfactories were assaulted with a thick and most evil scent. I turned slightly and what did I see but the terrifying countenance of Bangles. On closer study, her lips were not given her by the Good Lord, and the color red upon them was like nothing holy. In what I guessed to be a French accent, she said, "We where heere firrst." Much like Voldemort, she hissed when she talked.

Being both Southern and my mother's daughter, I can take purposeful rudeness only so far. I stepped back, smiled, and said, "Oh, that's all right!" She sniffed again, pointing her big honking nose up to the sky, and said "Well, gooood!". This second instance of utter rudeness made me MOST angry. I tried to control my-self. Finding I could not, I picked up my beer, turned to them both, and said in a ringing tone, "YOU are JERKS." Having delivered this judgment upon them, I marched haughtily away, my Tennessee-bred heart beating anxiously at my derring-do. I walked up to the next corner, where I immediately hailed a cab. It was my most extreme luck that this cab took me right by where they were still standing on the street-corner, looking bothered and like so much unwanted Eurotrash baggage. Wranglers stepped into the street and fussily waved at my cab. The cab was at a stop sign, and I suppose Wrangles and Bangles thought it was stopped for them. They began to make their way to my cab (my, my, my cab!) and reached it just as my driver began to move.

As we passed them, I rolled down the window and waved my hand at them in an unmistakably mocking way.

I don't like senseless mean-ness. Yes, I my-self am a mean little shit, but when I am MEAN I can tell you EXACTLY WHY I am being a jerk. I was a jerk to them because they a) were mean to the cashier b) did not respond when given an OPPORTUNITY to be polite and c) I fucking hate Eurotrash*.

*Ooooh, you don't put ice in your drinks. Oooh, your buildings are really old. Oooh, you have castles and nude beaches and hairy armpits. Seriously? Fuck you guys.**
**We could totally go back to calling them Freedom fries, you know.***
***I...don't really hate the French.

Any-way! I hope you enjoyed this tale of douchery. I am most glad that I do not have to write about incidents like these with frequency - after all, there is a time and place for returned rudeness, but I would rather it not be a part of my everyday life. Happy Fall, everybody!

I've Been Busy

In all the right ways :)

The baby you see above is the Thing's little sister. She is just fresh-from-utero in the pink-and-blue hat picture, and two weeks old in the pic where I've got a-hold of her little self. The picture of me and Thing is us at the pool on our last day pre-Baby. I won't be taking care of both of them until November, sadly, but Mom and I and Thing and Baby are all sweetly and happily and respectfully adjusting to sharing the days.

I know I blog most cruelly at times about toddlers, but I do of course love my Thing. It's been wonderful to see Thing as big brother. I love him even more and in different ways to see him so sweet with his sister. I don't mean to get gay about it, but it's been a beautiful thing to see this little family grow and change. To go ahead and get gay about it, I feel honored to have been here.

In this fog of sweetness and honor and what-not, I feel compelled to both blog-name Baby and re-name Thing. I am able post-vacation* and post-Zoloft** to see the brilliant little person in the shitting, tantrumming toddler, and I'd like to reflect that new hippie-ass view in ol' Martinflaps. I also, um, want the blog-names to sort of match, and the only 'T' word I can think of for a breastfeeding baby is...well, less than respectful.

*It was good. Later maybe when I get me a 'scrip for Xanax I'll write a bit about my lovely family. My Dad, anyway. Yeah. Definitely him. Need that Xanax, though.
**Better living through chemistry!! Right on, folks. Got to tell you, I've never been less full of rage in all my life. Of course, there will still be some about which to write, but it will be less that white-hot-rage-kill thing and more oh-jolly-good-the-world-chaps. Or something.

On to the names - the Zoloft didn't change my focus (focus. ha!!!) - so don't worry, you can still expect the sort of hyper ADHD writing that you've come to expect from Martin. Names. Right. First off, the little girl will be Squirk. She is the gruntiest, squeakiest little thing ever and as you may know, that counts as personality for a two-week-old. The Thing I now formally re-name as Buddy, because he has certainly become that to me. (I changed my mind about the same-letter thing. This blog is homosexual enough without doing something that terribly cutesy.)

So! As you can see, I'm back, I'm happy, and I'll be a little more attentive to Me Olde Blogge in the days to come. Please feel free to leave a comment telling me how beautiful and smart the children look. I am helping raise them, you see, and anything they are that is good must certainly be Because Of Me.

Until next time, sweet friends, I remain your most faithful blog-friend and hope that you are all bathing in the same sweet light of happiness as I am.

But with your clothes on, because I don't know some of you all that well. Have a Happy Thursday!

Martin Helps You Live Pt III

Here I am, back again! I am terribly sorry to simply flop off from my blog, but the warm weather called for much prancing about in the out-of-doors. Also, as you go to hear much about, I am working as a bar-tender once a week. This kills two full work-days, as I do nothing but prepare to tend one day and recover from said tending the next day. I have risen from my prone position on this day to again assist all of my delight-ful readers in a most precarious art...

How Not To Piss Off Your Bartender

(oh my goodness, look, I can make things in Bold!)

1. Let's start with tipping. Just this past evening, I had a lovely young woman purchase from me one Stella Artois, for which we charge $5 (plus tax). "That'll be five-fifty total, ma'am," I said. She carefully counted out one, two, three, four, five, six bills and graciously handed them to me. "Keep all the change," she said, grinning magnanimously.

May I simply say, fifty cents is not an adequate tip on a five-dollar beer, unless you wish that your karma bring you back as a knock-off brand box of Depends undergarments.

2. Did you come out with your friends? It is SO nice to have friends, huh? Now, look around. How many friends did you bring? Did you bring two or three? Well, okay, give me three credit cards and I will run three separate tabs and not think too badly of you. Now. Did you bring eight friends, like the group I had last night? First off, just don't, don't, don't give me eight different cards. If you HAVE to do that, then do NOT send a different person up each time for drinks. Think I'm an idiot? YOU try matching up the Person Ordering + Which Card + The Drink I Already Matched to One Person. Equals (=) Fuck all you guys.

3. Really quickly, about that idiot part: never assume that someone who serves you ANYTHING you put in your mouth is un-educated, stupid, un-savvy, or un-worthy of your precious non-serving time. We can tell, people. It's, um, kind of obvious. And it makes me seriously, um, want to kill you.

3a. About that non-educated thing. I realize that one does not need higher-level education to bar-tend. I realize now that one does not need higher-level education to do anything I am Doing With My Life.*

*Because of this conversation I had with my mom two days after my birthday.

Me: Jack's dad was a lot more friendly to me after he found out I had a B.A. I mean (chuckling) I'm not sure what it is about me that makes me look UN-college educated.
The Woman What Gave Me Birth: Well, the job you do doesn't require a degree. Most people just do that to get themselves through school, or they do it because they can only do menial labor jobs.
Me: (brief stunned silence) Right...I was just surprised that he...
Who Should Love Me More Than Anyone, Ever: You just don't want your child to be with someone who's going to drag them down. He's probably just worried that Jackie will be hampered by someone who isn't ambitious.
Me: (done)

4. SO. I recognize that I do several Stupid People jobs. I certainly understand why someone would look at me and think what apparently both my mother and Jackie's father do. Naturally, bar-tending demands huge patience, stamina, math skills, and every scrap of Social Nicety I've got, but it's trashy. I mean, sure, nannying takes immense amounts of love, creativity, patience, and (perhaps) just a smidgen of intelligence, but it is of course menial. I am just, after all, raising someone's child.

5. Whew! SOMEONE needed to blog, huh? Goodness gracious, didn't realize we had THAT in there. Back to the original point, proper care and tipping of bar-tender.

6. I really love numbered lists.

7. Let's take a minute to talk about ordering. In some places, you may certainly and with no worry what-so-ever order a "Cape Cod". You can tell which places these are by whether or not the tables are covered with cloths, and whether or not there is a glut of Gays about. You can tell when NOT to do such a thing when (ahem)

a. the bartender is me
b. the bar actually sells Natty Light in bottles
c. our fanciest beer is Stella Artois
d. the bar is sort of, well, sticky
e. Actually, fuck you, just don't do it. Order a god-damned Cranberry and vodka with a slice of lime. There is no need, oh modern-day Adam, to prissily name what is really just another combination of fruit and liquor. Cape Cod. Cape Cod, my dick.

8. Don't make faces at the beer list. I can't change it, and I will forever bear a little shard of hatred in my heart for the person who sneers at our $2 Miller High Life deal. Not good enough, Mr. Congressional Staffer? Get your ass back up the Hill then, you shiny-tied little bitch.

9. When it comes to Touching the Bar-tender.

Don't.

You may have noticed soft and gentle caresses exchanged 'cross the bar betwixt me and other patrons. These are a. friends or b. big, big tippers. Do be warned, though, that big tips do not affection for you make. You can tip big and still be a monumental ass-hat (which means no gentle caress for you, ah-ha!)

10. No matter how much you tip me, no matter who you know, no matter your four-day bender on crystal meth and cocaine, no matter your deeply-rooted issues with women....never, never, never, ever, but NEVER touch my ass. I have a baseball bat behind this bar, and I won't use it, but I will tell the manager and the owner and all the other bar-tenders about it and oh my GOODNESS Mark the THINGS they were saying about you last night after you left!!!

11. Last and final, and perhaps a jumping-off point for the next one: Straight Man Customer...HEY. STRAIGHT GUY!! You listening? Do not talk to me about how you are a "lesbian trapped in a man's body". I see that you're just trying to, you know, build a Bridge Of Understanding between us, but you're actually just being ignorant and obnoxious. Lesbian? In a man's body? THAT'S BEING A STRAIGHT MAN, YOU DIPPING SHIT.

Good luck to you all in your future bar-going endeavours, and remember: the drink passes through my hands before it hits your lips.

And you don't know where they've been, do you?