Ten Things You Should Know Before Asking Me to Babysit

Prelude

Shortly after my 13th birthday, I began babysitting for a number of families in my neighborhood. In addition to filling my pockets with a little extra spending money, this new vocation provided me with a means to learn everything I ever needed or wanted to know about sex; you'd be surprised at the types of things a curious adolescent can find while riffling through the night stands of the married couples who employ her.

What's even more surprising is how the Polaroid camera, despite its bulkiness, managed to maintain its popularity in the early 80s. As far as I could tell, every couple had one, and judging by some of the pictures I found, the only advantage of owning a Polaroid, as opposed to a more conventional camera, was the ability to discretely chronicle your sex life. Remember; this was well before digital cameras ever existed.

All I can say is thank God my babysitting career had ended long before the nanny camera hit the market. Otherwise, I'm sure the footage of my disgraceful behavior would have been aired as the feature story on Dateline or 60 Minutes.  

********

I figured my babysitting days were long over. However, over the last five years, a handful of my friends had decided that their genetic material was worthy of passing on to future generations, and thus, they've been procreating like rabbits. This small population spurt has renewed the need for my services, and against their better judgement, my friends, from time to time, have had me sit for their offspring. 

I'm intelligent enough to know that I have not been recruited to babysit based on the fact that I'm some sort of super-nanny who, through song and dance, can make children believe that putting away their toys is as much fun as playing with puppies and unicorns. Nor is it because I'm in any desperate need of money; I would never expect my friends to pay me for watching their children. I don't even know what a babysitter charges these days. 

It's $14 per hour — I just googled it on the chance my friends might be interested in knowing how much money I have saved them over the years.  

The real reason I still get asked to babysit is because I am single...and I don't have children...and I rarely go out. The sum of all these factors leaves my friends with the impression that I lack anything that resembles a life and, therefore, I would like nothing more than to babysit their children on a Saturday night. I don't intend to dispute this fact, but I would like to establish a few ground rules for future babysitting assignments (providing my friends will ever ask me to babysit again after they read this post).

1) I value my sleep like a crack-whore values her crack—and by crack, I mean the drug, in case you needed clarification—so please do not ask me to babysit before 11 a.m. or after 2 a.m..

2)When it comes to children, I have the attention span of an embryo. It's imperative you know this because it impacts how I will interact with your child. Be forewarned that your child and I will likely have about 15 minutes of interactive play before I am forced, out of boredom, to plop him down in front of the television. 

3) Because it's inevitable that your child will spend most of his time in front of the T.V., it is advisable that you have a suitable DVD on hand— unless, of course, you have no qualms about him being addicted to The Real Housewives or Jersey Shore. Otherwise, allow me to clarify what it is I mean by "suitable" and "on hand."

Suitable: A DVD that captivates both him and me.

Good choice: Team America—puppets for him; adult humor for me...we both win!

Bad choice: Dora the Explorer—he learns Spanish; I learn how to lie to a child..."Oh, oh, T.V.'s broken! Bedtime!"

On Hand: DVD is placed in DVR. DVR is turned on. Input source is switched to DVR. All I have to do is press play. This may seem rather remedial, but you know that remote control you have sitting on your coffee table? The one that's the size of an ipad and has more buttons than a sound board? Well, I totally get that this fancy gadget makes your husband feel like a tech-savvy man, but IT MAKES ME FEEL LIKE A FUCKING IMBECILE!! And I highly doubt you want an imbecile supervising your child, now do you? 

4)If you can't comply with #3, I request that the latest copies of US, People and Star be available for my perusal. And please don't mind if I use these magazines for bedtime stories.  From past experience, I know that children get very involved when asked to point to all the movie stars who "look like Auntie Rachel."

5)In reference to #4: your child's story time will be cut short if he points to someone like Prince or Mick Jagger. I may have full lips, but your child needs to learn how to make simple distinctions early on in life. Gender attribution should not be that difficult for a three-year-old to grasp.

6) I would prefer it if you did not ask me to bathe your child. Call me crazy, but I don't want his memory of my cleaning his private parts to be misconstrued later in life as "Auntie Rachel touched me down there." Not to mention, my short attention span for children can serve as a serious safety issue; I would hate for your child to inhale a tubful of water just because I'm too busy plucking my facial hair.

7) Given my earlier confession, I feel it necessary to assure you that you do not need to put a lock on your bedroom door. I am no longer curious, and I have no interest in knowing what the two of you do when you are behind closed doors. In fact, this mental image is very disturbing to me, and I would like very much to avoid it. It is almost as nauseating to me as the image of my paren—

Hhhugggh, Hhhuggh

Sorry, that was the sound of me almost puking. 

8)Speaking of puking...if your child has a certain proclivity for face-painting herself with her own feces, then it would be in her best interest if you disclosed this information before I change her diaper. Failing to do so will result in me almost puking on her while I frantically scrub her face (and quite possibly the inside of her mouth) with a whole package of WetOnes©!

9)If you are unable to provide me with dinner (e.g., Chinese takeout or cheese pizza with black olives and mushrooms), then I can not be held accountable for going to town on all the junk food you have in your pantry. In fact, if you do own a nanny cam, chances are you already have a video of me gorging myself on Baked Lays© and Chips O'hoy©. Should such a video exist, I trust your discretion in ensuring it doesn't get leaked onto YouTube. Did I mention that babysitters charge $14 dollars per hour? 

10) For the safety of your child, it is recommended that all alcohol be secured in a locked cabinet. Alcohol serves as a wonderful sleep aid for me...

                       and it works like a charm on the kiddos, too!

I don't want anyone to feel bad or to think, "God, she is really bitter about babysitting." I'm not. I'm just being forthright about how you can make my watching your kids an enjoyable experience. 


I realize that the tone of this post may seem a little acerbic, so if it's difficult to swallow, allow me to reference the greatest nanny of all time...




"A spoonful of sugar..."

♬♬♬☂☂☂☂☂☂☂☂♬♬♬

G-String Undies

When most people think back to the 80s, they remember MTV, the invention of video games, the fall of the Berlin Wall, or the demise of the Cold War. Not me. I remember the 80s for the birth of g-string underwear. 

Looking back at the styles, it is clear to see why the popularity of the g-string was inevitable. Everything we wore in the 80's was fashioned in such a way that our clothes appeared to be just another layer of our skin. When we went clubbing, we either wore tight-ass jeans (regrettably acid wash) or tube- skirts. When we worked out, we wore spandex. The tighter the garment, the better.

It was during this decade that we started to really appreciate the human form, and we didn't want to conceal it by wearing bell-bottoms or crinoline skirts. Instead, we spent hours on our mothers' sewing machines, taking in the bottoms of our jeans so we could easily tuck them into our white "come-f**k-me" boots. If we didn't have the means to a sewing machine, we would spend countless hours tightening, overlapping, tucking, and then rolling up the bottom of our pants so  they would fit tightly around our ankles. We were a generation who, through our fashions, announced, "Hey look at my Jane-Fonda-sculptured-ass," while hoping that our camel toes went unnoticed. 

Like any teenage girl of the time, I fell victim to the fashions of the decade. I remember loving Esprit, Ralph Lauren, and Calvin Klein, but since I was never rich enough to enjoy such fashions, I looked to the next best fashion icon of the time; Madonna. Her style I could afford. 

With the money I had earned from working at McDonalds, I would buy clothes that resembled the fashions she wore while prancing around in the videos "Borderline," "Lucky Star," and "Like a Virgin." I spent my measly paychecks on tube-skirts, lace tops, crucifixes, stilettos, leggings, and studded belts.

One outfit that I was particularly proud of was this cute little number I had bought from Le Chateau. It consisted of a tight, orange, mini tube-skirt with a matching orange and white striped t-shirt. It was hot! 


However, there was one problem: the skirt was so tight, it outlined the seams of my underwear, including the gusset. This was unacceptable.

Luckily, Le Chateau had 2 for 1 undies on sale. As I sorted through the bin, I couldn't help but think what a total rip-off it was, considering the garment I was about to purchase consisted of three strings and a patch of fabric in the shape of a triangle. Basically, I was about to buy an eye patch and try to pass it off as underwear, so for all intents and purposes, we will just say that I purchased my first crotch patch. 


These g-string underwear were uncomfortable but necessary; I was willing to sacrifice comfort so I could wear my little tart-skirt while giving the impression that I was going commando. Panty lines, after all, were so 70s.

Like any girl who buys a brand new outfit, I wanted a place to wear it. As it so happened, all my underaged peeps were meeting at our favorite bar, Uncle Eddies. Uncle Eddies was a bar that thrived on underage drinkers. It was a seedy establishment that employed bouncers who had the math skills of ferrets. It never failed, while the bouncer was calculating the age of the person ahead of you, you and ten of your friends could sneak in behind him without his knowledge. If you were unable to do this, all you needed to do was borrow the license of a friend who was of legal drinking age. You didn't even have to look remotely like the picture on the license. Hell, you didn't even have to be the same race. Getting into Uncle Eddies was pretty much a given.

Because it was a hop, skip, and a jump away from where I lived, this bar served as the ideal oasis for me. All I had to do was walk through the gully, cross the Crowchild overpass, and climb through the man-made hole that was conveniently placed in the chain-link fence that stood right outside of Uncle Eddie's backdoor. From door-to-door, it probably took me about 15 minutes, depending on how much alcohol I had just consumed.

The night was proving to be everything that I had imagined for my cute little outfit.  My high school crush was there with some of his friends, and I knew there would be no way around him noticing me in this hot little get-up.

As we stood around waiting for the rum and cokes to kick in, we gossiped about school. And then, out of nowhere, the bass kicked out a familiar tune. Jess, one of my girlfriends, screamed, "I love this song!" She ran out to the dance floor as the beat picked up. I, for one, refused to be the first person out on the dance floor and required a few more drinks to let my guard down. 


We all stood around and watched Jess prance around the floor with a bunch of drunk guys. 2 Live Crew's song, "We Want Some Pussy," was playing, and every time the chorus played, there was Jess, with all those drunk pigs, emphatically claiming that she, too, wanted some pussy. Except, Jess thought the words to the song were, "We Want to Push It." Far be it from any of us to correct her, instead, we were all busting a gut laughing at her. This was years before girl-on-girl was popular; Basic Instinct had not been released yet.

The next couple of songs were good enough to entice all of us out onto the dance floor. With our alcohol-induced confidence, we sang and danced to Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar on Me" and AC-DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long." My g-string underwear were proving to be quite the good investment. I could shake, bump, and grind to any song without having to worry about any compromising position showing off my panty lines. I was on fire.

As sexy as I was on that dance floor, nothing could distract me from the fact that I really had to pee. The matter became one of urgency when I realized that my flimsy underwear could not withstand the challenge of absorbing anything should I accidentally piss myself.

I rushed to the bathroom and found myself a relatively clean stall. To bear my weight, I braced each arm against the walls of the stall, and I squatted down without touching the toilet seat in fear that I might catch crabs. This did not work for me. I was way too drunk. I resigned to sitting on the toilet seat, pissed off that the girl before me was more successful at squatting, and in doing so, had pissed all over the seat. 

My bladder must have been holding a gallon because the stream would not stop. Since I had a great deal of time to spare, I started reading the graffiti on the bathroom stall. I wondered what kind of person feels compelled to let everyone know that she was here. Who really gives a shit? "Kelsey, class of 85, was here." I also wondered what shitty thing James did to his girlfriend that made her write, "James has a small penis." I considered leaving my own little message but decided that I was above this.

As the night went on, I became more intoxicated. Conversing with anyone was becoming more difficult, and dancing soon became out of the question. I looked across the bar, and I saw my fantasy boyfriend talking to another girl. "Okay, that's it," I thought. As with many drunk nights before and after this night, when I decide that I am done, I really mean that I am done.

Without saying goodbye to my friends, I stumbled towards the back of the bar and left through the back door. Two of my guy friends from school were out back smoking pot. After declining an invitation to join them, I found my way to the chain-link fence.

I was pacing back and forth, trying to find the hole in the fence through which I could climb. I kept thinking, "It was here just last weekend. Did they close it up?" As hard as I tried, I could not find it. This would not stop me...I had to get home. I took my purse and threw it over my shoulder. With both hands, I grabbed onto the fence and found my bearings as I dug the tip of my shoe into one of the tiny holes. I was able to gain enough leverage so I could pull myself up to start climbing the fence. This was the easy part. Hoisting my leg over the top of the fence, however, proved to be quite challenging.

There was a short moment in time that I was straddled over the top of the fence, trying to shift my weight so I could swing my other leg over. I don't know if many people have spent much time straddling a chain-link fence, but take my word when I say that they are uncomfortable and inappropriately invasive. Had my hymen still been intact, this would have made for one of those non-coital moments that would have surely broken it— like aggressive horseback riding, or wiping out while water skiing. 

It was during this Olympic straddle that my two friends started making cat calls. I had forgotten I had an audience. After a brief moment of being fence-raped, I was able to swing my other leg over the top and jump down. As I pulled myself together, I noticed that my purse was hanging upside down, and all its contents were on the ground before me. I picked up all my stuff, shoved it back into my purse, pulled down my skirt (which was up around my waist) and stumbled home.

The next morning, I awoke with the worst headache I had ever experienced in my 17 years. It felt as though my heart had migrated to my head, because every time it would beat, my brain would rattle. 


In my drunken state, I had passed out on top of my covers and was still wearing my clothes from the previous night. My cute little outfit had been ruined by coke stains and cigarette burns.  

I got out of bed and found my purse to see if I had lost anything. This has since become a tradition for me. Except, now, I rarely find anything missing. Back then, however, it was pretty much guaranteed that I would have lost money, lipstick, or my license. Sure enough, I could not find my license. Except it wasn't my license; it was my older sister's license. I had snuck it from her just in case I needed it to get into the bar. Shit, I had to find it.

I decided that I would go back to the fence to see if it fell out of my purse during my fearless climbing expedition. 


As I changed my clothes, I came to the grave realization that my sister's license wasn't the only thing I was missing. Somewhere between dancing at the bar and passing out in my bed, I had lost my panties. I racked my brain as I tried to remember if I had gotten together with some guy. My memories of the night before, though foggy, did not include a hook-up. I decided to stop worrying about it, for I had more pressing matters to attend to; I had to find my sister's I.D..

When I arrived at the fence, it didn't take me long to find Andrea's license. Thank God! I bent down to pick it up, and I noticed that the hole in the fence, for which I had been desperately searching, was less than five feet from where I stood. How did I miss it? As I surveyed the ground for anything else I may have lost, I couldn't help but notice, in the periphery of my vision, a small, white object on top of the fence that was swaying to-and-fro in the wind. Curious as to what it could be, I stepped towards the fence to get a better look. "Hmmm, what is that?" As I got closer, the object became horrifyingly clear to me. Mystery solved! 


My panties!  


There they were, flapping in the wind, as free as Nelson Mendela.

I contemplated retrieving them, but reconsidered this decision due to the fact that it was rush hour and Crowchild was bumper-to-bumper traffic. Besides, I had another pair at home that was just like them. Not to mention, leaving my panties stuck to that fence was just as symbolic as Neil Armstrong leaving the American flag on the moon. It suggested that I had conquered unmarked territory. It was my own personal way of saying, "Rachel Paul, class of '88, was here."


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