Once I do tell my friends all the bat crazy shit that’s happened, they can’t seem to believe me and then shout, in public areas, that I’m lying about whatever misadventure I’m retelling. Maybe writing this will add to my non-existent street cred, doubtful but can you blame me for trying?
On that note, the tipping point getting me to write this blog was me sharing a story to my dearest (and married) friends at the mall:
As I was pulling extra baby wipes out of my uncommonly-large-but-perfect-shade-of-red Berksha messenger bag, for my friend’s one-year-old, they commented, “you’re like our nanny!” That N word produced a negative physical reaction. My eyebrows started sweating, I replied “I was a nanny.”
I said it like I had been a former coke addict and a line was sitting in front of my while my tweeked out friends talked about how sweet the wallpaper dance was. I sheepishly handed over the baby wipes when my surprised friends asked me why I wasn’t a nanny anymore.
And then, calm-as-day, I replied “while I was going to the toilet, they unhooked a shower head and sprayed me.”
Pause.
“You’re lying.”
“No, how could I make that up? It’s what nightmares are made up of. The kids had timed me in the toilet and knew, umm.. when I’d be a bit longer in there. They picked the lock, ran to the shower and sprayed me like the water contained nanny-repellent”
“You’re seriously lying now,” said my friend, who still hasn’t moved from the crowded walkway of the food court and was attracting looks by his increasingly loud exclamations.
“I don’t have proof besides the emotional scarring 6 and 8 yr old Italian boys can leave on a 22 year old American girl.”
“God, your life is interesting.”
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| Devil Children |
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