PunditMom

Mrs. Chicky here. My new friend PunditMom (In real life. That’s right, I’ve met her in person. It’s okay, you can feel jealous.) has entrusted me with her blog today. It’s a bit like house sitting, but without the ability to raid someone’s pantry for the chunky peanut butter.

So, this is what it’s like to post on someone else’s blog. Hmm, strange. It feels a little like wearing someone else’s skin. Not in a Buffalo Bill kind of way (“It rubs the lotion on its skin, or else it gets the hose again”. Heh.) but in a stepping into someone else’s life sort of way. Picking up their dry cleaning, eating their cereal and drinking from their favorite coffee cup sort of way. Like trespassing, but with permission.

I’ll try not to put the throw pillows back in the wrong order, J. Okay?

Although she knows my humor, was well aware, in fact, of my proclivity toward the more sophomoric and oftentimes scatterbrained/freeform (read:manic) blog behavior, PunditMom still chose me to pinch hit while she was away. That could have been a very bad idea. However, I don’t feel comfortable sullying the clean sheets and gleaming surfaces of my friend’s blog. I want to be the perfect blog guest, just as some strive to be the perfect house guest or house sitter.

But it wasn’t always that way.

There once was a time when I was a young teen taking babysitting jobs to pay for my designer jeans habit. Once the parents drove away and my young charges were snug as bugs in their beds I would take stock of the inventory of their kitchen cabinets. Chips? Cookies? What sort of snack could I lay my grubby little hands on? Chips and cookies? And the leftover pizza, too? Yes, please. If there was no Coca Cola or Pepsi in the fridge I was sent into dyspeptic fits (And, no, not diet. Please no diet soda. Anything but that.), but if there were kids in the house who were old enough, there was almost always Kool-Aid to drink. But I did not, I repeat DID NOT, ever raid my employer’s liquor cabinet. I was a good girl, thankyouverymuch.

Stop laughing.

Once my hands were sufficiently greasy I’d promptly get on the phone with my best friend. Ooh, you’re going out with your boyfriend tonight? And his best buddy is tagging along? The cute one?? Come on over! Sure, the owner of the house won’t mind.

They minded. Trust me.

It’s not like we were having wild monkey sex (Oops, sorry, J. I tried to be good.), swinging from the ceiling fans with a bottle of Boone’s Farm in one hand and a joint in the other. But we were not in any way, shape or form neat. Or quiet. Or respectful of their personal belonging.

To the kind husband and wife who gave me what would end up being my last babysitting gig: I’m very sorry for what happened to the lamp. I’m sure you discovered the crack not too long after driving me home that night. I harbor no hard feelings towards you for never calling me back to sit for your kids.

But, to my defense, the husband was completely snackered when he drove me home. I figure it’s payback for him scaring the bejeebus out of me.

So, you see, I have learned over time by having my own house sitters as well as blog sitters that being respectful of the owner’s space gets you an invite back. And recommendations for other gigs. No pressure, J.

I think it’s a nice custom when visiting someone to bring a gift. Since I can’t leave J. a nice bottle of ’97 Brunello di Montalcino (’cause I’m saving that for myself) I’ll instead leave her something that I think will make her chuckle when she reads this:

From one liberal to another, thanks for letting me raid your space, J. I promise I won’t tell anyone about that framed and autographed picture of Fred Thompson that you keep in your bedside table, tucked under your dog-eared copy of L. Ron Hubbard’s Dianetics.

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