I’m like a priest. Well, not at all, really, only in the way that everyone confesses to a priest. Otherwise, I’m very un-priest-like.

Why does everyone at work tell me EVERYTHING?

I mean, I know the answer to that question, and it’s that for three years I’ve maintained a pretty much perfect record of not gossiping, of being a good listener, and being discreet.

And I won’t pretend that I’m not, as Edith Wharton puts it in The Age of Innocence, “fully aware that [my] reputation for discretion increased [my] opportunities of finding out what [I] wanted to know.”

It’s has come in handy on rare occasion. But by and large, I don’t want to know.

What is it exactly that I know?

Lots of things. Everything short of where the bodies are buried. Straight from the horses mouth. Stuff that would make you say “Wow” and you don’t even know the people in question.

And most days it’s fine, but today is one of those rare days when I’m dying to spill.

End rant. I’m ok now.

Confessions of the Chronic Interrupter.

" It's not that I stopped listening ......
.... it's just that I started talking."

How you know your dog is spoiled.

When you find yourself outside in the rain standing over your rain-averse dog to shield him while he does his business.
That's when you know he's spoiled.

But that's ok.

I wouldn't want to pee in the rain either, I guess.
And I defy anyone to resist dat widdle face.

(photo credit to Nick)

Here's a dose of happy-happy joy-joy

Radio - "... I'm walking on sunshine, whooooa-oh, and don't it feel good......"

My Nick - "Katrina and the Waves. What an ironic name for a band."

Sarah Smile - "Of course it wasn't ironic back then. It's only now that it's funny."

*silence*

Sarah Smile - "I'm mean NOT funny. It's NOT funny now!"

*silence*

Sarah Smile - "I'm so going to hell."

Not exactly what I wished for.

The last couple of weeks, the traffic on my commute has been a bit lighter. Which is awesome, until I realized that it's because of all the troops we just deployed from the nearby base.

And now I feel like a heel for enjoying the lighter traffic.

In six months, I wil despise myself for this.

I've officially decided that Nate and Jennylee (from Beauty and the Geek) are the cutest thing ever. I mean, I'm sure they've broken up already and all, but whatever. They're cute as hell.
And when Nate "jumped out a window"* to say goodbye to her after her team was eliminated, I let out an audible "awwwww."

(*I'm sure the producer had something to do with it, it was good tv.)

How much do I like them?

(I can't believe I a). did this and b). am telling the internet about it.)

I added them as myspace friends.

Yeah. I know. I suck.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a game to play.

Stuck in my head, like a song.

Jonny says it's an OCD thing, that most of the things that enter his brain get stuck there. He says his brain is sticky.

This makes me feel less crazy, although I suppose crazy is a relative term.

'Rez has blogged that she has the phrase "she farted, softly" stuck in her head.

Colsy cops to "hurly burly," and "evil jungle prince," and "cellar door."

Jonny has "a man is bread," and "bollocks to thee" stuck in his head.

I know this because I asked, because I have "the inside is larger than the outside" stuck in my head. It's from The Last Battle by C.S. Lewis, which I read recently while in the tub. Yes, in one bath I read the whole book. I told you I could live in my tub. I'm like Story.


Also, here is the cover of that book, which I loved as a child, and despite it being rather straightforward, I could stare at it endlessly.

Also, for as long as I can remember, I've had the phrase, "Do you know what she DID?" stuck in my head. Whenever I'm not thinking of anything in particular, this floats out of some corner of my brain to fill the void. Why that phrase? I have no idea.
This usually happens in the shower.
Tub, shower, there seems to be a connection.
Perhaps I need a warning label.

Sarah Smile, Crazier When Wet.

I have the vague feeling that I am "she" so perhaps my subconscious is aghast at my own behavior.
Maybe it's like dreams, just some random bit of information I took in, that my brain isn't sure where to file.

I dunno.

What phrases get stuck in your head?

It can't be a good sign.

You know you've established your reputation as a clumsy person when someone sees you carrying two sheets of paper and a cup of coffee, and asks, wide-eyed, if you need help.

We have an umbrella for similar reasons.

Sarah Smile says:
The other day we bought stockings for the express purpose of putting them on our pets faces for our amusement.

Jonny Opinion says:
That's what stockings are for. What else could you do with them?

What's Your Worst Babysitting Tale?

(Inspired by Lola)

I'll be the first to admit it. I'm not so good with the 1-10 year old set. Odd, perhaps, since this seems to be most people's favorite age group.
I like babies, of course, I mean, who doesn't love a fat little baby blowing bubbles in their own spit at you? Babies are cool. Babies pretty much stay where you set them down. You can accidentally swear in front of a baby and they aren't going to tell. Relatively speaking, babies are easy to watch.

But once they start walking and talking, I prefer to hand them back to their mothers, until they get to Jr. High.

And while everyone else seems to think toddlers are the most fun, I'm not so sold on 'em. And that's most of the babysitting jobs that were offered to me as a teenager. And do I ever have some horror stories.

There the four year old we accidently got drunk, my friend's little sister. Lissy and I watched Kaitlin a lot. And there was always a yellow pitcher of fruit juice in the fridge, left there by her parents just for Kaitlin. On this particular afternoon, Kaitlin had been really whiny, so when she said her tummy felt funny, we were a bit dismissive and just offered her another glass of juice. When we figured out that her parents had used that pitcher for leftover margaritas we thought for sure we were going to jail. Fortunately Kaitlin was fine.

And there was the time I was watching three boys under the age of three. The baby was pretty easy, he mostly slept, but the 2 year old and the 3 year old wouldn't stop fighting. While cleaning up the 2 year old's pee from the kitchen floor, the 3 year old climbed the blinds. Fortunately the couch caught most of his fall, the blinds and the 3 year old weren't in the best of shape when their parents arrived home. And it was almost scarier when they just nodded at my story and said, "It happens."

And then there was our neighbor who within months adopted 2 two year old boys and a 6 month old. The overwhelmed wife begged me to babysit one night. Again, the baby mostly slept or drank his bottle or grabbed at his chubby little feet. The boys played with knives and launched themselves off the kitchen counters. They were one step ahead of me all night. I swore, never again.

A few months later, a friend of a friend asked if I would babysit her "very smart" five year old son, Nicholas. The money she was offering, for just one kid, was really good, and I thought one kid couldn't be so bad. I should have known that was my first red flag, that she was willing to pay so much and couldn't find anyone else to watch him. The second red flag was when the neighbor met me on the lawn and said, "You're Nicholas' new babysitter? I'm sorry." She then offered me some lemonade and said, "It'll be ok, dearie. I'm sure it will."
Nicholas was smart, in the sense that I'm sure Hannibal Lecter was smart as a child. He cut a swath of destruction that would put invading forces to shame, leaving me in his wake wondering whether to attempt to clean up and apologize to the neighbors, or chase him.
My last day as his babysitter, he'd taken off up the street. I'm fast, but DAMN that kid was cagey and quick. I'd finally corralled him, when he looked back towards his house and saw his father arriving home. He took off like a bat outta hell, running down the middle of the street. I made a mad dash after him, and was just about to catch up to him, despite his evasive maneuvers. Unfortunately he zigged just as I zagged. And the full weight of my body, not to mention the momentum I'd built up, ground him into the asphalt.
I picked him up gently, scratched and screaming, whispered, "I'm so sorry, kid," handed him to his father, looking him in the eye and said, "I QUIT."

He probably didn't know I was referring to the profession of babysitting as a whole.

Question

Why is that, even when my purse is so heavy with quarters that it would double as a weapon, do I hesitate to pay for my drink with change, for fear that the cashier working nights at 7-11, the one with the smoker's cough and a hand twitch, will be silently judging me?

Confession

I don't enjoy the sound of children singing. You know, like those family bands in the seventies, or Kidz Bop.

Yes, I know. I'm going to hell.