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Saturday, September 27, 2003

Adventures in Zombistan

I have this thing now where I've got to get up really early and stagger around the house pretending to be coherent and stuff. Oh yeah, it's a job. Okay, perhaps not a real job, but it's bringing in money and paying the bills, so we'll call it a job even if I don't leave the house.

It certainly is work.

I babysit.

Ye gahds.

A two year old, blond haired, blue eyed little boy. This is nice for several reasons:

One) I can stay home with my own kids. What with the move and all, getting them into day care might totally destroy what little love they have left for me, pushing them off the edge of mere brat-i-tude into major dysfunctional child mode and therefore completely ruining my already stressful life. That would be what I like to call A Very Bad Thing.

Two) I don't have to wear a dumb uniform. In fact, I rarely even get dressed. I stumble out of bed when the kid shows up, put on some pants and whatever t-shirt is lying there on the floor, and that's that.

Three) I'm getting paid in cash. The girl that owns the boy gives me 10 or 15 a day and then pays me the rest at the end of the week. Therefore, I'm getting money every day, even if it's only a little bit, and that somehow serves to make me feel like every day is my birthday. I stuff it all into a little clay pot on top of the fridge and periodically go over to peer into it and gloat.

Of course, there are the down sides to it:

One) The boy doesn't exactly like being left here with me at the asscrack of dawn every morning and usually spends some time wailing and trying to break my front door down. The first couple days taught me to pull the endtable over in front of the door as soon as his mom leaves, to block it and keep him from escaping. See, before I figured out to do that, he'd get the door unlocked and be halfway to Canada before I even had time to turn around. It'd be one thing if I lost one of my own kids, but one I didn't spend a bunch of hours laboring to bring into this world? His mom might be a bit miffed.

Two) The boy doesn't eat properly. Case in point: One morning, I made breakfast. A nice healthy breakfast of scrambled eggs with cheese, and raspberries. The kid chowed down all the raspberries on his plate and then pushed all the eggs off onto the carpet. I frowned. Picked the eggs up, put 'em back on the plate (Hey! Five Second Rule! It's still good!), and said, 'Eat the eggs.' He stared at the eggs, then stared at me, and said, 'More berries.'

'Naw, you eat some of the eggs, then I'll get you some more berries. Look, they've got cheese in them. Mmm. Eat. Now.'

He pushed all the eggs off onto the floor again. I frowned.

What little kid doesn't like scrambled eggs and cheese?

Short of holding him down and forcibly inserting the eggs, there wasn't much I could do about it, so I just let him consume somewhere around a pound of raspberries. Sorry, Boy's Mom.

Today I made ramen with cut up hot dogs in it. (Yeah yeah. It seemed like the thing to do at the time.) Well, my kids ate it like it was going out of style, but the boy merely delicately removed the hot dog bits, ate those, and then pushed all the noodles out of the bowl onto the floor.

Noticing a trend yet?

I guess he doesn't like what I feed him. He sure as hell drinks all my juice, though. I must find some way to feed the boy properly so he doesn't starve while in my care. I think his mom would frown upon that, too.

~~~~

On a side note, Spawnie is teaching me to drive the Big Black Truck o' Doom. I must say I am terrified of the truck, but am rallying well because it's probably a good idea that I get my license as soon as possible. So, while the truck is huge and driving it scares the hell out of me, I am forcing myself to learn. It's a Dodge, you know, with the extended cab and, I think, a 6 foot bed. In short, it's bloody GIANT. I have to crawl up to get into it. It has no mufflers, thus making it very loud and also adding to my fright of the thing.

On our first excursion, we went to St. Joseph Mercy's parking lot and I drove in circles at a stately 15 mph for about an hour. I managed to make lots of right turns without running over any curbs, and after several tries, managed to also park the thing effectively (as in, straight and between the lines. Fuck, I rawk.) so I'm doing well so far. Besides, the whole thing's made of steel so if I smash into anything, it's the thing that's likely to get hurt, and not me or the truck. Whee.

I will feel very manly and macho once I can drive the Big Black Truck o' Doom effectively, since it's a very manly and macho truck. Worship at your leisure.

Uhm, that's all for now, I think.

I shall be attending a birthday party for the kiddo I babysit today, with Spawnster and my own kiddies.

Save me.


link | posted by Zombie at 12:57 AM |


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