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This email from some dude who knows some kid I know who knows some other kid I know is all, "Turn on your WinAmp, WMP, ITunes, whatever you play music with. Turn the shuffle on. Push play, then fast forward and write down each song as it occurs in this list, and it will be a fortune:"
And I'm all, "Haha. These are so lame." But I'm already playing stuff on shuffle on WinAmp, so I take a gander for chuckles and this is what I come up with:
How you felt about high school: 'Whatever, Whatever - Cake
How you feel about life now: 'Where is my Mind? - The Pixies
How you feel about the future: 'Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps' - Cake
The way your crush feels about you: 'I Will Survive' - Cake
Your best friend?s secret: 'Plastiko' - Oneiropagida
The story of your life will be titled: 'Teardrop' - Massive Attack
So now, understandably, I'm worried. I mean, is Sarah REALLY worried about becoming plastic? Is the story of my life truly to be one of sorrow and woe?!
Not to mention that my secret crush is hoping he'll survive. Seriously, I'm not that awful, guys.
But I do really like cake. With frosting.
Anyways, in other, more serious news, I've been quite busy these past few weeks. I've been babysitting quite a bit for my neighbors. A relative is on his deathbed, so the families (all of them living on our street in various and sundry houses) have been mostly by the bedside, and I've been doing babysitting duty for one of them. The children aren't too awful. They're a bit of a handful, but they're fun and they keep me on my toes. However, they're not much for listening to me on the whole. They obey when they feel like obeying (when it's convenient and my ploys are working for the day), and their parents, as it were, do not employ my favorite disciplinary method, The Paddle. So, needless to say, when kids are told "No, you can't do that" and consequently disobey, only to be limply threatened with some time-out or somesuch that is never carried out to speak of, my threats don't do much to keep little miniature people from, say, jumping off of couches, climbing into refrigerators, and jumping on top of younger siblings. Among other things. And let's just say that some people's kids must have the immune systems of Superman from eating five day old food off the floors, kissing the dog, and never washing their hands.
So a day or two ago, while babysitting after supper, the three year old girl announced, mid-Spongebob and a crying not-yet-one-year old, "I'll have a sandwich." I said, "Errrm. How about not now. You just ate." She said, "Uhm. I'll just have a sandwich now," and proceeded to open the fridge and retrieve a tub of Country Crock larger than her head and a loaf of Sunbeam.
Me: "No, actually you won't."
I walked into the kitchen, wailing baby on hip, to make my point clear.
She said: "How about I'm going to have a sandwich."
She took out a slice of the bread and placed it on the table. While she was doing this, I picked up the Country Crock to put it back in the fridge, and by the time I had put it back in the fridge and she had looked my way to whine about me putting it back, the dog, Jack, had eaten her slice off the table. I closed up the bag that the loaf was in and placed it back in the fridge as well.
Me: "How about no."
Suddenly, her head was inclined downward, so she was glaring at me out of narrowed, squinty eyes, and her voice was reduced to a threatening growl as she said, "SANTA IS WATCHING YOU."
So, there you go. In her little purple terry sweatsuit with Spaghetti-Os all down the front of it with her Bella Dancerella tutu skirt pulled over them, her hair filled with Spaghetti-Os and milk, carrying around her Lunchables tray with a few stray pieces of too-pale American cheese in it, she looked particularly menacing. I almost expected her head to start spinning around on her neck and for her to start projectile vomiting, like the girl from The Exorcist. But, unfortunately, it was not due to demon posession, but simply lack of spankings, which is possibly more difficultly corrected than demon possession, really. I mean, a little crucifix-waving, some holy water here and there, and, voila', you're all set. But this Mean Babysitter discipline thing goes way back, and it's not like you can really just implement at four years old or whatever and hope that your previous, lamely-attempted discipline measures will be simply forgotten. I'm sure it's been done before, with some measure of success, but, really, if nobody's being particularly conscientious about it up until now, things probably won't change too soon.
Vive le Wooden Spoon.