VivaCity

Nathaniel and I are on the hunt. Be vewy, vewy quiet….We’we hunting baby-sittews.

I remember being an up-and-coming teenager back in the day, when I used to have to stave off the competition for baby-sitting gigs with pointed sticks and CPR certification. These days, it seems even friends and family start looking longingly at the door & blatantly checking their watches if you should mention in polite conversation how long it’s been since you left the house without one child on the hip and one up the butt. And the third a half-step behind, mouth running at what I think of as JPM, jokes per minute. Knock knock. Who’s there? Ima. Ima who? Ima stick my foot up yer ass you tell me another joke in the next five minutes, that’s who. Let’s take the JPM down to idle, shall we?? Jesus. I need to get out of the house.

So we’re in the market for a baby-sitter, and let me clarify…A respectable baby-sitter. Nathaniel has the idea that just about anybody, up to and including the bum on the corner and/or a rock with a stern face painted on it, would suffice. I’m going to have to go ahead and, um, exercise my veto…Yeeeah. My argument is this…What would the point be of going out to relax if I am unable to completely relax? That, and of course, the boys’ safety. Just the minor stuff we might want to consider.

I’ve looked in the local newspaper and found a wealth of TWO whole ads that MAY apply to what we need. My next step will be to run an ad of my own…3 children, slightly spanked, free to good home. 2 house-trained, 1 high maintenance, all current on shots, all must go!

And yet, I’m hesitant, due to my penny-pinch-iness…I can just imagine the cost of dinner, a movie, a couple of drinks, and the baby-sitter tallying like the meter on the damn gas pumps…Not to mention the cost of gas! Do you think those nice ladies in the ads would be upset if I asked them to drive out and watch the kids for fifteen minutes while we took a stroll around the block? Hold hands and presto-chango, we’ve got ourselves a bona fide DATE, hyuck hyuck! Ain’t nothin’ in this hey-ur werld sweeter ‘en walkin’ with mah man. If I’m-a lucky, he’ll bah me some ahce cream and kiss mah hand!

Have I mentioned I’m going stir crazy here??

So if you have a reference, someone reliable who doesn’t, say, beat the kids too harshly or make them cut their own switches, or care to loan out your sweet grandmother, please let me know. I can be reached in Padded Cell #155 at the Home for ApeShit Mommies. Whatever you do, DON’T send a file. It's lovely in here, nary a crayon mark or diaper odor around.