Witch.

shapeimage_2-6_4My friend, Lunch Lady Rocker Chick, wrote a piece about nannies, the gist of which is: don’t be a bitch to the kids you are being paid handsomely to care for because we mothers are watching you, we’re onto you, and just because you look better than us in a bikini, doesn’t mean we won’t take your sorry ass down and make you wish you had never gotten out of your canopy bed this morning.  I think, anyway.  She was telling me about her article after many drinks imbibed while watching a bad dad band (that’s a band, consisting of dads, who should, frankly, keep their day jobs.  Doctor Dash has had it with the dad bands.  “No one would burn a night out watching me play hockey just because I was decent in high school,” he groans.  He has a point.)  In any event, I will insert a link to her article when it’s published and I figure out how to accomplish that complicated technical maneuver.    

I have been outraged twice in the last two days by, not a nanny, but a granny.  These two sweet little boys at the pool are under the care of one mean fucking grandmother.  She yells at them, berates them, attempts to quash normal boy behavior, and wields the guilt scepter like the evil queen that she is.  A physical description is in order because she’s sitting right in front of me and I can’t resist.  Her hair is a carefully whipped blond meringue, the kind that gets washed and set once a week at her salon for old bitches.  It’s looking a little crushed in the back and I bet it’s starting to get stinky.  (I would stick my nose in it and sniff it for a hundred bucks, but not for ten).  She has huge white sunglasses with some faux bling encrusting the thick stems (I actually kind of like them in an Elton John – I don’t give a fuck if I look ridiculous kind of way).  She is wearing lots of gold jewelry, a white cotton v-neck sweater and navy linen pants, held up over her small paunch by a gold braided belt.  She is sporting a fresh manicure and pedicure (her nails are red squared-off talons).  Her lips are bright pink and she has drawn in the lips she wishes she had with a shaky, dark lipliner.  Nice.  The powdery scent of her perfume keeps wafting over to me from time to time.  In short, she seems better suited for eating cashew chicken salad at the Galleria Mall in her metallic sandals (come to think of it, I like those too) than watching two boys.  Yesterday as she was shooing the boys into her car I heard her screech, “A storm is coming and you only care about yourselves and we’re all going to get killed and then you’ll be sorry!”  Even my kids were aghast.  My only hope is that she doesn’t spend too much time with these guys.  But here she is again, barking their names from under the shade of an umbrella, cleaning the crud from under her nails with her other nail.  Oh, she’s too terrible.  A modern day witch.  

I’ve got my eye on you, lady. 

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