Lazy Douche Enablers: Shawn of Backpacking Dad

Lazy Douche Enablers write guest posts for me every other Tuesday. That way, I can be a much better… you guessed it: Lazy Douche. I’ve been such a LD lately, that I hadn’t been posting the LD posts people wrote for me awhile back. One might say I don’t NEED the help. Regardless… Today’s Enabler is Shawn, of Backpacking Dad.

Hot Babysitter

My daughter is almost two years old. During her life we’ve left her with a babysitter exactly zero times, until last week.

A professional babysitter, I mean. We’ve had family or friends watch her while we stole an evening or even a weekend away on our own. But we could never get our act together enough to actually find some high school or college kid to come over after the kid was sleeping to eat all of our food while inviting his or her friends over to engage in hijinks.

At first it was because she was our baby! How can we leave our baby with a stranger? Later it was because, enh, we’d kind of gotten used to only sporadic alone time. And even later it was because how could anyone be competent at this? We’d been training for two years to take care of a kid our daughter’s age; how was some kid who couldn’t even vote or drink going to be qualified to do this job?

It never occurred to me that what I ought to have been worried about was having a hot babysitter. But this is a theme in the suburbs.

Before I do any more typing here I should say that the person about whom I am writing is definitely over 18, and I have every confidence she is also over 21. Not to diminish the general creepy old man factor involved in this post at all, but I hope to at least keep it from landing me in jail. She’s old enough to smoke, and she’s in college. Don’t call the cops.

Anyway….

We had hired her once to help grandma watch the kid at a friend’s house while the friends were also going away for an evening, leaving their daughter in grandma’s care as well. It was a good opportunity to vet a sitter in a controlled environment. But I never met her. My wife took care of the arrangements. Our friends, however, made a point of telling me that she was hot. Because they’re shit-disturbers.

Needing a sitter for an afternoon when our daughter was too sick for daycare we invited her over for a few hours. I was already out of the house when she arrived, but I would be the first one home, so my first meeting with our hot babysitter would be solo.

Well hell.

I walked in the door and my daughter came running over to me, smiling from ear to ear. They’d been watching Nemo and Cars and jumping around the apartment loudly enough that the downstairs neighbour dragged herself out of her sick bed to ask them to keep it down. A grand old time was had by all.

And the babysitter? Yes, hot. Totally smoke-burned voice, though, that I recognized too well from my days of hanging out with the cool kids smoking behind the school.

And the house reeked. It reeked. But not of cigarette smoke.

Not of any kind of smoke. That would have gotten her fired, but I’d at least have understood. Kids are boring sometimes and you just want to help them become interesting by frying your brain a little.

No, the house reeked of a desperate assault on the bathroom. It reeked of gut-rotted, whiskey shits.

Hello babysitter. My my, you are pretty cute. But what the fuck did you do to my bathroom?

I know what you are thinking. You are thinking, “Hey, man. You have a kid. A toddler. She probably just shat herself as she is wont to do, and the sitter just didn’t change the diaper.” But as any parent will tell you, we know what our kid’s shit smells like. We can pick it out in a crowd of toddlers.

It was really hard to reconcile how she looked with how she had clearly violated my plumbing. It was enough to make me suspect that she’d had her boyfriend over and he’d done the number on the pipes.

Guess what. No matter how hot your babysitter is, if you are convinced she has crapped a raccoon you will never be able to have inappropriate thoughts about her.

Damn. Because I’m pretty sure one of the perks of being a dad is the idle, harmless thoughts you’re allowed to have about the babysitter.

No? What are you, an America-hater? Do you want the terrorists to win?

We had a brief introductory conversation about school and the like, but it seemed like she really wanted to get the hell out of there. Wouldn’t you? If you had dropped a deuce in your employer’s can and he’d come home to some ungodly stew of a stench? Yeah, I’d want to leave too. Quickly. And so she did.

Goodbye, hot babysitter. I’m not sure I can hire you again, not because you’re hot, but because oh my god.

After she left I chased my still sniffling daughter around the living room for a while. And I noticed that the smell never dissipated. In fact, it grew stronger.

And sure enough, when I checked the contents of my daughter’s diaper I discovered that I had completely maligned my hot babysitter. Er, her hot babysitter.

Because my daughter was home sick. And part of her sickness was apparently holy Christ on a bicycle what is dying in your intestines? It completely changed the, well, the everything about her elimination, making it totally unrecognizable.

Is this post really about shit? Sick shit at that?

Nope.

This post is about how I have a totally hot babysitter.

Phew.

Although, now I might have to fire her for not changing that fucking diaper before I got home. Jesus. See? Never hire a smoker to babysit; they can’t smell a damned thing.

But, she is hot. How much hotness does it take to make up for anosmia?

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Shawn is a dad with a backpack that his kids ride in, yes. Fortunately, his posts are filled with stories and reflections that go far beyond the simplicity of his own self-description. If you haven’t been entertained by him regularly yet, you should make your way over to Backpacking Dad and hang out. He’s often quite brilliant.

Just for the record…

…going into my child’s room at night in response to Mega-Screaming, to change a diaper full of diarrhea and clean the shit off of his face and hands is NOT the definition of My Ultimate Fantasy. (I swear, he got some in his mouth. *gag*)

I mean, there was no Kiefer Sutherland, anti-gravity underwear, perfect boobs for life, endless supply of calorie-free chocolate, or no-cost, worry-free daily babysitting offer in there ANYWHERE.

And wait… wait… let me check… no. I did not have the world’s largest, multiple orgasm at any time before, during, or after the event. (by the way, if I had? I’d be seeking therapy RIGHT NOW.)

And nobody has come to my door to offer doing my dishes, laundry, and to vacuum my carpets for the rest of my natural life.

Additionally, in case you were wondering, I have not found the deed to my private island lying around anywhere.

Also, there is still cellulite on my ass cheeks.

So, confirmation: it had NOTHING to do with any ultimate fantasy of mine.

It was just runny excrement. YAY!

(Why, oh why, do they have to get curious and stick their hands in there?)

PS: Don’t worry, I’m no Poop Newbie. This is the home of Scatastrophe.

Yup. Spazzazoid.

After yesterday’s slight moderate okay, huge heart-attack moment, I’m trying to stop shaking like a dorkwad and breathe normally.  Why does something like that make me go all bat-turds?

Oh, yeah.  Because I’m a slightly moronic Spazzazoid.  Yes. I just made up a word.  Use it freely.

My plan for today was to keep the “meme drawer” clean and do a couple of these thingies I’ve been tagged for.  Because if you’ve been around for awhile, you have seen what can happen when I don’t keep the Meme Drawer Clean.  And if you haven’t been around awhile, feel free to click and find out, man.  But be warned.  That’s a shizzo-lotta crap to read about me. 

But hey! If you’re really into getting to know me better you can read about My Eights.  Or, if you’d just like to point and laugh at my stupidity… Get In Line.  Uh, I meant, you’re in luck, because you can now do that… with such wonderfully embarassing anecdotes as the “floating turd story” and finding out that you’re not alone if you have, indeed, sharted… just by reading this sexy post.

*ahem*

It’s also Thursday Thirteen, and dangit if if I didn’t get my Go-Go-Gadget Brain! in gear and decide to be the incredibly whizzomatic, geniusoriffic, and smartastical person I am (*snort*) by bringing you today’s…

7 Things Meme PLUS 6 Things Meme = Your Fabuloso Thursday Thirteen!

Holy turds, who knew I could add?

I was tagged for the 7 Things Meme by the following awesomeatious persons:
Napaboaniya
Christie
Kat
Vegan Mama

And for the 6 Things Meme by these wonderiffical peeps:
Sarie
Ray
Cookiebitch

 

13 Random Thoughts that floated through Sarcastic Mom’s head today:

1. Why.do.I.have.to.wake.up?

 

2. I’m totally unprepared for the first time I catch Braden eating a Booger.  Words of advice?

 

3. I wonder if it’s possible to vote for Coffee for President.

 

4. Why can’t groceries just regenerate themselves?

 

5. Kevin & Leroy are still touching me innapropriately.
Hi. This is my backfat.

6. Has anyone’s vag.ina actually ever fallen off?

Hm. I googled it (“vag.ina fell off”) and discovered 2 awesome things.
1. It doesn’t look like there are any documented cases of vag.inas falling off.
2. The #2 Google Hit for that search is on THIS SITE.  I’m putting that on my resume.

 

7. What’s that SMELL?

 

8. My hand just had to slip while I was checkin the diaper, didn’t it?  My finger just HAD to slip into the sh*t, didn’t it???

 

9. Poop should not be allowed to exist. (Then there wouldn’t be any Scatastrophes.)

 

10. Tabitha D’umo is still mocking me.  Die, whore!

 

11. I am a good mother.  Ignore the picture below and just maintain eye contact with me, damn you.

 

12. It’s really not that hard to ignore your child’s screaming when it’s coming from inside the closet on the other side of the house.  Really.

 

13. I don’t have to pull any cheap tricks to make people visit my website. It’s just because I’m such a good writer.
“The Rack”

Have a great (rest of) Thursday, friends!  And don’t forget… *insert words of wisdom*

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