(insert griping here)
Wanna know what sucks about having a long distance girlfriend? It costs as much for me to ship her Valentine’s present as it does for most to purchase a present for their significant other. Normally I’d be carrying a grudge against the Fedex establishment, but eh…she’s most definitely worth the trouble.
Well, I’m trying to think of an effective way to come out of this blog entry without looking like a cheap bum (lest Tab read this). I guess the best way to do that would be to tell traumatizing stories from my childhood that will cause all naysayers to stop in their tracks and weep tears of empathy for me and my plight. The only traumatic childhood incidents I remember that carry any inherent entertainment value are stories of the many horrible, horrible babysitters I had. Allow me to elaborate.
The first wretched babysitter I had brought with him a penchant for pornography. At my house in Wisconsin we had a satellite dish and through that dish, we got every channel. EVERY channel. My friends grew up not being allowed to watch the Simpsons while, by the tender age of 13, I had seen Bachelor Party, Basic Instinct, neigh every horror movie, and, thanks to said babysitter, a good amount of the Playboy channel. Not that my parents allowed that, per se, but it happened nonetheless.
I’ll never forget sitting in the living room, playing with my blocks, said babysitter flipping through the channels…
Sitter: “Hey, you get the Playboy channel?”
Steve: “What’s that?…Whoa! What’s that?”
The next babysitter I had was by far the worst. She was the sort of subtle evil that crept into your house under the guise of politeness and responsible fun, but when the parents left, all hell broke loose. There were a couple “idiosyncrasies” she possessed that certainly fell under category of child abuse. I fondly remember my true introduction to her upon her initial employment. My parents had just left and Ms. Satan sat me down on a bench on the porch. She calmly put her leg up on her knee and retrieved something from her shoe. I quickly noticed, as she brandished it in my face, that the concealed item was a sewing pin. I was promptly warned that if I “pull any shit,” she would poke me with the pin. I was an innocent, trouble-free child and such excessive warning undoubtedly caused me to fall on the floor and convulse. I don’t remember that part, but I’m sure it happened.
Her other charming quality was her tendency to have burly man-friends over for surreptitious make out sessions. She escaped my prying eye by suggesting that I read a book as she locked me into my room and barred the door. She got paid for this… Needless to say, I’ve always wanted to be a babysitter.
For the record, my final eccentric babysitting situation had nothing to do with mistreatment or trauma. I had this babysitter for several years and, to be honest, I never had more fun with any babysitter in my life. The activity I remember most vividly was drawing floor plans for our dream houses. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but as I placed arcades and swimming pools, he placed baby grand pianos, color-coded furnishings, and draperies. As far as other activities went, he never wanted to watch the Ms. Universe pageant, he liked to peruse my mom’s jewelry, and he absolutely loved Julia Roberts and Madonna. Maybe he’s the reason I like Martha Stewart so much.
Babysitting stories concluded…