Debbie Does Drivel

We interviewed a babysitter tonight. Our regular babysitter turned 21 last year and ever since she discovered the nightlife, we need to be home by 10 so she can go out after babysitting.

Saturday, we had our longtime babysitter start at 2:30 since we planned to see an early concert. I made the major mistake of asking her when we had to be home and she says, "Oh, 6:30-7." So, that's no fun.

Well, Kev and I started drinking. It's like we figured we had to pack a lot of fun into a few hours and that equated to whiskey sours. Well, then we start calling the babysitter, offering her $50/hour after 6PM, if she'd just stay longer (this fee was being subsidized by our wealthy adopted parents, Mike and Dee). Then, I call to see if one of her friends can come over and relieve her, so Kev and I can stay out. Judgment? Out the window.

Then, Kev and I start fighting. In front of everyone. It was something about how I suggested having our neighbor come over and watch the kids and Kev didn't feel good about that. Now, normally, I am not privy to handing my kids over to people I do not know. Though in a pinch, I will leave them on the street corner while I run into the store for a few things. Also, I sometimes go out during their naps. To get my hair done. And drive to Mexico. Plus, there was the time I put them in the trunk while I drank at the Whistle Stop. But I left the trunk open a crack.

Anyway, Kev and I were fighting. Then, there was something about insisting he drop me off in the middle of the street. And so he did.

This wasn't a good night.

So, we interview a new babysitter, because clearly, all the above was the old babysitter's fault. And I start thinking: you know how you can sense the energy of a place or of people? Does she know that we were interviewing her because of a fight and some whiskey sours? Does she know this wasn't a friendly visit, but rather a desperate plea for a babysitter who isn't yet 21?

I don't know, but I've never had a whiskey sour before. Or since.

There is no moral to this story.
Or, apparently, a point.

Oh wait, hold on! The point is: if you have two small children, get a car with a big trunk.